


Dominus

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Clint Barton, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Sexual Submission, Semi-Dark Clint Barton, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint needs a master to serve. It has always been like this</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dominus

Clint didn't know what it was that made him like this; all he knew was that it was something he needed.

It had started when Clint was barely four years old. His old man, Harold, would start in on him, beating him and forcing him to do whatever the hell the butcher wanted. Clint didn't like the beatings; not at all. What he _did_ like was having the choices taken out of his hands. If his father told him to get him a beer, Clint got him a beer. If Harold told him to act as a footrest, he would act as a footrest. It was simple. Clean. Effective.

When Clint was eight, Harold got very drunk and ended up killing both himself and his wife, Edith, in a car crash. For the next four years, both Clint and his older brother, Barney, bounced around from orphanage to foster home and back again. Through out all of this time, Clint was lost, drifting in a place where he didn't know what to do. Some of his foster fathers treated him similarly to the way that Harold had, which offered some release, but not enough.

When Clint was twelve, Barney decided that he had had enough of the foster care system, and the two brothers ran away. They hid out on a circus train that had come into town. When they were discovered, they were not kicked out like they expected to be, but instead brought into the crazy family and trained.

Buck Chrisholm, the man known at the circus as _TrickshotMaster Archer,_ took a special interest in Clint when he discovered the young man throwing knives at a target and hitting them all perfectly. Buck took up the role of Clint's mentor, perfecting Clint's aim and showing him the ways of the bow and arrow. Clint soon became a master marksman, having a natural talent that could not be matched, even by Buck himself.

The big change came one night when Clint was barely fourteen years old. He was tired, practically dead on his feet after a whole sixteen hours straight of training. Buck was proud, or at least he _acted_ proud, and invited Clint to have a beer and watch some TV with him. Clint accepted, desperate for the man's approval. When Buck sat on the couch, Clint kneeled on the floor out of instinct, not awake enough to remember that it was _Buck_ he was with, not Harold.

After Buck had pulled the reasoning behind the action out of Clint (which hadn't been too hard considering how tired Clint was), things changed. Buck became even more commanding in his actions, if that was even possible. The man would praise Clint immensely when the boy did something right, which he had realized affected the boy deeply. But when Clint did something wrong, Buck would have Clint lie in push-up position with Buck's feet on the kid's back until Clint simply couldn't hold it anymore. Or he would lash at Clint with his belt, deep enough to leave scars. And he would always praise Clint afterwards, saying how _good_ Clint was.

It was simple. Not clean, but effective. It _calmed_ the young archer.

Years later, when Clint was lying in a pool of his own blood with multiple injuries inflicted by his brother and mentor _(master),_ he was ready to let go of everything. He had failed Buckno, he hadn't just failed Buck, he had gone _against_ him. What crime could be worse than that?

But Clint picked himself up, because if there was one thing that Harold and Buck had hated it was a quitter, and he couldn't fail them anymore than he already had. So Clint stole some medical supplies and did his best to stitch himself up, paying off a motel owner to look the other way while he recuperated in a dingy room that smelled even worse than Clint felt.

For the next five years Clint put his various skills to ~~good~~ use; killing, stealing, and infiltrating for anyone with a large enough bank account. Well, that wasn't quite true. Clint was actually quite selective about who he worked for. No one involved in anything that harmed kids and no one that wanted him to kill innocent people would get his services. It made getting money a lot harder than it would've been for any other mercenary, but it made Clint feel better about what he did. It made him feel a bit less like an animal and more like a human being.

The whole time, however, Clint felt like a live wire. He was on edge constantly, the only times that calmed him being when he served as someone's bodyguard, on went undercover as someone's underling. In those instances, when the power was put into someone else's hands, Clint felt purely and completely _calm._ His thoughts clear, any twitching or vibrating almost completely gone from his body.

Things changed when he got word that the organization known as SHIELD was hunting him. Clint immediately had to go on the defensive, stopping taking jobs and moving around a lot more frequently than he would have liked to. Six months in to his time on the run, he turned twenty-two, and SHIELD caught up to him. A man who seemed to be in his early thirties in a clean-cut suit and a bland expression sidled up to Clint in a bar and offered Clint a job where he could use his skills to save lives.

Clint had been _needing_ something (or someone) to be dedicated to again, had known this for a while but had never found a place he felt comfortable completely offering his services to. Maybe SHIELD could be that place.

* * *

Right away, Phil could see something different in SHIELD's newest recruit, Clinton Francis Barton. It was in the way the young man tracked everyone in the room with his eyes, the way he deferred to others to give their opinions before himself, the way he seemed to be a little lost without an order to follow. This was something that Phil noticed because he was looking, because he knew that the archer could be great if he wasn't always wound so tightly, despite pretending to be just the opposite.

Phil became increasingly more worried about this when he walked into his office one day to find Clint sitting on the floor with his head resting on the couch, fast asleep. When he entered, the archer snapped awake, years of training having made him a light sleeper. After a moment of waking up, Clint rushed to his feet, cheeks flushing and eyes directed at the ground. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Phil beat him to it.

"Clint, tell me the truth about what is going on with you, because I can't help if I don't know what's happening," Phil said this in the calmest, most open tone he could manage, body language non-threatening.

You could definitely say Phil was surprised when Clint dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Slowly, Clint extended his hand, offering the knife that had been on his belt hilt-first.

"It's not a sexual thing," the archer said timidly, yet defensively, "I just need...control. I need someone _else_ to have control. I can't...I can't managed itby myself. I just...all my life I've been this way. First my old man, then Buck, then anyone I could findbut those were temporary." He paused, swallowing thickly. "It's why I joined SHIELD in the first place, Phil. Because I thought that maybejust _maybe_ I could find what I needed. What I still need."

Quickly, Phil thought it through. This aspect of Clint had definitely been affecting the way the archer went about his job, so much so that he bowed before anyone that was his superior, even when he was being sarcastic and cocky. If Phil could help, if he could separate this _thing_ of Clint's from work, then it would benefit a lot of people, including Clint. So yes, Phil made up his mind quickly.

"I'm honored," Phil said as he took the knife from Clint's hand, hooking it to his own belt. Then he rested a hand on Clint's head, running it through the younger man's spikey hair.

From then on everything changed for the two agents. Phil's major rule for what they were doing was that they separated it from work, that they didn't let it bleed through, which Clint agreed with. Clint's major rule was that it remained nonsexual, to which Phil readily agreed.

They established a routine; after every mission, Clint would first get changed into more comfortable clothes, then go and see Phil. He would kneel as Phil checked him over for injuries; if the archer was hurt, Phil would help to the best of his ability, unless it was serious, then he would send the other man to medical. Afterwards or if there were no injuries to be found, Phil would sit on the couch in his office and work on paperwork while Clint kneeled on the ground next to him, one of Phil's hands in his hair. Or, Clint would hold push-up position with Phil's feet resting on his back, controlling their breathing until they matched.

This went on for the next few years, and it worked wonderfully. Their arrangement kept Clint from falling into that headspace when out on mission; it allowed the archer to control with whom he reacted in such a way for, keeping it solely within the confines of his relationship with Phil.

Everything changed with Loki.

In an instant, all of Clint's free will, all of his choices, were taken from him. Serving Loki was his mission, and it was both terrifying and _glorious_ at the same time. Clint knew he should've been fighting harder against the god's control, but how could he when it was _literally_ exactly what he'd been looking for his entire life? How could he try and fight something that was giving up control in its purest form?

Loki discovered this part of Clint easily, of course; he was inside every single part of Clint's headhow could he not find this secret part, too? And oh, how Loki abused the power he held; he twisted it in Clint's head so that the archer couldn't tell the difference between the consensual arrangement he and Phil had and the forced bond he was forming with Loki.

Then Phil was dead, taken out by Loki. One master killed by another, and there was nothing Clint could do about it.

Then Thor was dragging Loki away, and the itch that Clint hadn't felt in years was returning, and _there was nothing Clint could do about it._

The weeks dragged on; Clint was mourning for something that he couldn't explain to anyone else, that barely made sense to _him_ let alone to the general public. Let alone to the confident and self-reliant people he now called his teammates.

Clint's life began to spiral. He didn't know how to seek out a healthy relationship like the one that he and Phil had had. So instead he filled his life with booze, woman, and BDSM clubs that were nothing like what he was truly looking for, but closer than anything else Clint could find. It made him think back to his days with Buck, his days filled with pain and abuse and the sweetness of submission...

To drown out his dreams filled with Phil and Loki and his complete and utter _failure,_ Clint kept himself in a constant state of functioning-drunk. He would stumble into Stark Towerno, wait, _Avengers_ Towersomewhere between five and eight a.m. after a night of hitting bar after bar and having sex with random people (though Clint had discovered years ago that he really didn't like sex).

On one such morning, about a month after the Battle of Manhattan, Clint stepped into the elevator at Avengers tower that would take him up to the floor that Tony had told Clint to call his own. Clint was still getting used to the fact that he had a real place to live, let alone the fact that he had an entire _floor_ just for him.

 _"Good morning, Agent Barton,"_ JARVIS's calm voice greeted him as Clint stepped into the super-fast elevator that would take him up to his floor.

"Morning, JARVIS," Clint replied, pressing the heal of his palm against his forehead in a vain attempt to ward of the major hangover-headache he was sporting. "How is everyone? _Where_ is everyone?"

_"Sir is in his labs, tinkering with an engine; Agent Romanoff is training in the gym; Ms. Potts, Mr. Odinson, Mr. Banner, Ms. Foster, and Ms. Lewis are all asleep in their own quarters."_

Clint nodded absently. "Hey, do me a favor, JARVIS? Can you start a pot of coffee up in my rooms?" The AI said something in the affirmative, and then something occurred to Clint as they were about to arrive on his floor. "JARVIS? Where's Steve?"

 _"Captain Rogers asked me not to tell you until you arrived at your quarters,"_ JARVIS said, just as the doors slid open to reveal Steve-freaking-Rogers standing in front of the elevator, arms crossed and sporting his trademark disappointed expression.

"Heya, Steve!" Clint said as brightly as he could manage, slipping around the Captain easily enough and heading for the kitchen area for the coffee he could already smell brewing. "What brings you to the hawk's nest?"

Steve was silent behind him, but Clint didn't let that get to him, instead focusing solely on getting the sweet, sweet, coffee into his blood stream. He seriously needed some caffeine. And a huge burger, with all the fixings. Also, sports drinks. Those worked surprising well for Clint to help cure a hangover. Oh coffee, coffee was so good, he could just drown in it and be completely ok with that. It would be the best way to go-

"Clint, are you even listening to me?"

Clint's head snapped up from where it had been resting on his fist against the countertop. He whirled around, then cursed himself because the sudden motion really didn't help his nausea. Or his dizziness. Or anything else that hurt. "What can I do for you, Cap?" He asked tiredly, really just wanting to get into bed and go to sleep. Was that really so much to ask?

"We need to talk about you going out every night. It doesn't look good for the Avengers to have someone who goes out and gets drunk and goes home with random--uh, people." Steve stuttered over the last part, and Clint narrowed his eyes, deciding that they would come back to that.

"Tony had practically slept with every girl in the united states before Pepper and you're worried about me going out a few times?" Clint said with a raised eyebrow.

Steve frowned. "Yes, but Tony has put that in his past. He's dedicated to Pepper now. You, on the other hand, are a different story. Look, I know you suffered a loss, but Natasha did, too, and you don't see her getting drunk every nightand every day; I noticed you drinking at the tower, too."

Clint's eyes narrowed, and he took a couple steps forward. "Leave, Captain, before I don't play nice anymore."

Steve's eyes narrowed, too. "Clint, as leader of this team, I'm putting you on suspension until you get your shit together. Get what you need, Clint; get some closure. Seriously." Then the Captain turned and stormed out, not even looking at Clint until the elevator doors slid shut behind him.

* * *

 _Get your shit together,_ he says. Yeah, like it is as easy as that. All Clint's shit is spread across the world and into another fucking _realm,_ so no, getting it together is not going to be as easy as Steve seems to think it will be. _Get what you need,_ he says, _g_ _et closure._ What Clint needs, and his closure, just like his shit, is in another fucking realm, so no, that's not going to happen anytime soon. Well, it won't unless-

No. No way. There was _no way_ Thor would agree to it. Unless, of course, Clint phrased it as he needed closure...That could work. It would be easy past that point, all he would need was the Odinson's trust and a few special weapons...Yeah, yeah, he could get what he needed.

Clint spent the day plotting and planning, using the knowledge he had of Asgard from what SHIELD knew, and from the vast amounts of things that Thor had told the Avengers about his home. Once during the day someone tried to get access to his floor, but Clint denied it without even waiting to find out who it was. He didn't have time for distractions; he needed to finish planning this crazy idea.

By the time that night fell, Clint was ready. He stepped in the elevator with his bag full of weapons slung across his back and his tactical gear firmly in place, and headed down to Thor and Jane's floor. Clint found Thor watching some reality TV show that Clint didn't care about, and saw that Jane wasn't there, probably working in her lab, still. Thor stood up to greet his friend.

"The mighty Hawkeye! You have been absent all day; what can I do for you?" Thor boomed, his voice carrying.

"I have a request to make of you, Thor, and it might be a lot to ask," Thor nodded, expression turning serious, and waited for Clint to continue. "I want to go and see Loki. I need some closure, Thor. I need to look him in the eyes and ask him why he did the things he did. I need to hear it for myself, man. Please, can we go? Right now. It'll be a quick trip, but if we wait any longer I might chicken out."

Thor looked grave, and as if he was weighing this decision very seriously. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Yes, Clint, I will take you. You deserve to look your foe in the eye, Hawkeye. Let us go up to the roof; I will call Heimdall."

Five minutes later, the two Avengers were walking along the Rainbow Bridge in Asgard. Clint took it all in, noting the golden buildings and beautiful structures surrounding everything. The bridge was something to behold, so many different colors melding together to form something truly amazing. Thor pointed out all of the different sections of Asgard, but Clint had eyes only for the palace, where he knew Loki was being held right in that moment.

Thor explained that they were going to go right there, and that he would tell his father later; he was afraid that if he went to Odin first, that the All-Father would say no and turn Clint away. Better to ask forgiveness than beg permission, Clint always said.

When they reached the dungeons, Thor led Clint through a few rows of high-tech prison cells until they reached Loki's. The Tricker, who was currently reading a book, had his back to them, but Thor simply cleared his throat. Loki didn't look up, but he spoke. "Well, Thor, this would be the first time you've visited me. To what do I owe the pleasure? Did someone hurt your pretty flowing locks?"

"He's here because I am," Clint said, stepping forward. Immediately, Loki had snapped his book shut and was standing, staring at Clint with a greedy expression. The two stared at each other for a few minutes, before Clint tilted his head towards Thor, still never breaking eye contact. "Thor, could you leave us, please? The things I have to say to Loki need to be said in private."

Thor looked uneasy, but nodded his consent and left, murmuring that he'd be right outside if Clint needed anything.

Loki grinned. "Kneel," he commanded.

It was a test, Clint knew it was. One that he would gladly failor pass, depending on how you looked at itso he dropped to his knee, bowing his head. Loki chuckled gleefully, and Clint could hear the god walk forward until he reached the edge of the prison cell.

"Very good, Hawk, very good." A shiver ran up Clint spine at the words, and he couldn't helped but feel pleased. "Head up, now; I want to look at you." Clint complied with the order, looking up at Loki, who was now much closer than he had been before. "Oh my, you look so sickly. Had a hard month, have you?" Loki said in mock sympathy. "You've had no one to tell you what to do, to one to give you orders...So now you've come to me, because you don't know what to do. Is that correct?" Clint nodded, but Loki _tsked._ "Use your words," it was an order; everything with Loki was an order. That's what made him perfect.

"Yes, that's why I've come. I...you took Phil from me, and there isn't anyone else I can go to...so you are my last shot at not losing my mind. I'm here to get you out, Sir." He smiled, and the god smiled back, a simple barring of his teeth.

Clint pulled his bag off of his back and opened it, revealing the mass amount of weapons inside. He swung his quiver onto his back and pulled out his bow, happy to have the familiar weight in his hand. He then went about strapping the various weapons to his person. When that was done, he pulled out the explosive devices he brought and placed them on the four corners of the cell.

"You're going to want to stand in the center of the cell, Sir. Use your magic to protect you if you can." Loki nodded his understanding and followed Clint's advise. Clint then took a few steps away, standing behind a pillar to offer himself some protection. "Man, I hope this works." Clint pushed the button on the detonator and there was a loud explosion. Clint's ears started to ring, but when everything settled, he ran towards Loki's cell and looked through the dust.

"Magnificent, Hawk, truly magnificent," Loki purred as he stepped out of the rubble. Clint beamed, then told the god that they had to go, and that it was better if Loki lead because the prince definitely knew the palace halls and escape routes a lot better than Clint did.

"After me, then," Loki grinned, the sound of soldiers approaching ringing throughout the hall. Loki began walking away.

Clint followed.


End file.
